Father's Day: The Initiation Ch.2

Chelsea roads weren’t known for their charm. Potholes and years of neglect gave personality to every street corner that teemed with struggling Latino life. Summer heat and industrial traffic bowed the asphalt, and winter’s deep freeze cracked its contours. A web of confusing one-way streets branched out from the center and made travel difficult for outsiders. Clouds of gray haze were suspended in the air from hundreds of trucks that frequented downtown. The city was worn and aged.

Once a bustling city of Italian and Jewish middle class, Chelsea was now a shell of its former self. The face of the city, like much of sprawling urban centers away from the clutter of Boston, was a breeding ground for a darker American identity. Packs of school kids in oversized clothing, teenagers with baby strollers, and older men a paper bag in hand- Chelsea was a present day half-way station for Central American immigrants. Spanish was the language of life, lust, and money.

Downtown storefronts buckled under their own weight. Triple deckers leaned into the streets. We swerved through one-way streets, passing under the shadow of the grim steel interstate.

We turned the corner onto Shirley Ave, and aimed our truck for the cruiser parked a few blocks down. We had beat most of the other responding units to the scene. I snapped on my gloves, and already wasn’t impressed by the lack of commotion. This was going to be another waste of time, I could already tell.

“Dick pain.” Sean turned to me, hands glued to the wheel. “This is gonna be for dick pain, guaranteed.”

We pulled the ambulance up behind the cruiser, and popped the emergency brake into place. The engine sputtered and went into high gear, as if at once excited by what was to come. I slid out of the truck, and opened up the compartment door where lay all of my equipment. I grabbed the red Jump Kit, Oxygen cylinder, and Defibrillator, and turned to face the apartment building where the call had originated. Slamming the door behind me. I cleared my throat, and leaned into the rain.

A growing crowd of bystanders cluttered the street, chattering in Spanish, and pointing fingers. Concerned women held their husbands, relatives inquired neighbors; worried eyes pervaded the scene.

I walked around the back corner of the truck, banging the corner of the ambulance with the bags swinging in tandem. I looked up to the top floor apartment that the call originated from, and inhaled quickly. The building leaned into the street, and buckled under its own weight. Looking like a little nervous, in lieu of our growing audience, I suddenly felt lost without my partner at my side. We were an instant spectacle, and I needed some guidance.

I found Sean kneeling next to a small boy seated on the steps of the building entrance. Behind them, the building loomed upwards and outwards. The door was open, and the police officer had gone missing into the depths of the doorway.

Gabriel was a pudgy olive skinned boy of 11. He sat dazed on the steps of his apartment building, dressed in shorts, a dirty tank top, hair neatly combed to the side. A smudge of blood on the edge of his shirt, and tear stained cheeks told me nothing more than he had gotten in a tussle with some local boys over food stamps. I placed my bags to his side, and squatted down to get a story.

Sean took a second to inspect his front, back, head, hair, eyes, arms, legs, in a methodical fashion, and asked him again and again what happened, not giving Gabriel much time to answer, let alone catch a breath. As I kneeled down to help, Sean stood erect adjusting his glasses.

“Stay here with ‘im, he’s fine. I’m gonna see what’s upstairs.” And in an instant he was gone, carrying away the jump kit into the dark doorway. I was left alone with the boy. Alone again, waiting.

“What happened?”, directing the question to the boy’s hands, as I inspected fingers, palms, elbows, “Did someone hurt you? Your family? Father? Mother?” prompting him as much as I could.
He nodded quietly.

“My father”, he paused as if trying to remember the words in English. Tears started their slow descent, and he pointed to his wound, eyes stared at the sidewalk, reticent.

“My father... hurt me, con un cuchillo”. Cuchillo. Mmm, knife, I think. I decided to try to get him to talk more.

“Say it in Espanol- Hablo espanol.” Three semesters of Spanish was usually enough to get the gist. Gabriel hesitated in disbelief. And with a breath, spoke under his breath, never once changing expression.

“Mi papa le asalto a mi madre con un cuchillo, y me pego porque queria ayudarle a mi mama pero no podia…”-

It was a gush of words, but ‘mama' and ‘papa' stuck out, and I think ‘cuchillo’ meant knife. Shit. I wanted to know where Sean went. I wanted upstairs.

Downshifting around the corner with a plume with black smoke, a massive red fire engine turned the corner and wedged its way onto the opposing sidewalk. The girth of truck blocked the road completely, and lights spun and flickered around the body. Doors and hatches opened, and a handful of heavily clad men climbed out, lumbering toward my location.

“Listen”, I stuttered as the Lieutenant approached, understanding my lone window of opportunity.“this kid’s just got a small cut, can you stay here with him- my partner went upstairs.”. I dont think he even heard what I said, but I motioned ‘up’ with my free hand. With the other, righted myself, and grabbed the oxygen bag.

“Thanks!” I powered up the remaining steps, pushed the door open and ran to the dark stairwell, leaving everyone behind. I was free. He watched me take off.

Taking two steps at a time, I leapt up the winding staircase. With the oxygen bag swung under my right shoulder, my left hand gripping the banister- I heaved myself up trying catch up with Sean. Passing the second flight, and having the third in view, I slowed down a bit to catch my breath, stomping up the last steps as if to announce my arrival. The top apartment door was open- I was in the right spot.

Before I could even announce my arrival, everyone had found me. Sean was huddled on the floor in front of me frantically trying to unzip the top portion of the Jump Kit. Behind him, a sweaty police officer dangled a small Hispanic woman from a chokehold. His full body weight pushed her against the wall of the doorway entrance, and lifted her off of her feet.

Frozen in place, and breathing heavily from the trip upstairs, I tried to piece together what was going on. Wrapped around the officer’s hands was a dishtowel, and where his hand sunk into woman’s jowels, an steady stream of blood bubbled out of her mouth.

Her neck was slit.

Sean readjusted his glasses, and finally got the bag open. His hands were shaking.

Father's Day : The Initiation. Ch.1

This Sunday was quickly resembling every other Sunday that I’d been to work. The sky was gray, it was raining, and I was staring at asphalt.

I had only been on the job 10 months, and was already getting tired. It was hard to talk to coworkers, the pay was low, and downtime was tedious. I had trained hard for saving the world with my bare hands, and prepared psychologically for any situation that might be presented- but somehow that chance had never really came.

Days were long. As a private EMS company that did the public 911 calls for four major cities, I was promised the action of emergency work. Stories were thrown around the workplace like vets swapping tales from the trenches. Little did I understand that my job was more laborious- that the moneymaking for the company involved other things. Unknown to me, we were taxi rides for people who had no legs, for those who needed oxygen, for those who had to go to doctor’s appointments and dialysis visits. Cranky, sick, deteriorating people became the brunt of my labor. I was a furniture mover, I was a taxi driver, I was bored stiff.

My legs readjusted themselves in the passenger seat, and my knees folded up onto the dash. I slouched down to mimick the feeling of being in bed- at least enough to be comfortable, but the seatbelt cut into my cheek, and I decided to take the whole damn thing off. I blew out a sigh. Grey sky. Grey asphalt. Time did not treat me well.

The rain spattered against the window shield just enough for the lowest setting on the wipers. The squeak of rubber against glass made me cringe enough to wrinkle my brow. Sean was sitting next to me in the driver’s seat, and had been my partner every Sunday for three weeks now. I’d hoped he’d say something to break the mood. But he slouched just as I did, and appeared glazed over in boredom.

Sean was a small man from New Hampshire; button eyes, and round glasses. His uniform was clean and ironed, his new military buzz cut- so popular amonst the blue collar ranks, I had noticed- was clean and close to the scalp. He was one of the more ameable partners I had had in recent months, and was unassuming, softspoken, and he carried a slight lisp.

My weekly ritual of rehashing and reinventing old conversations wasn’t as severe with him. He seemed genuinely interested in my life, and conversation beyond work wasn’t tough to come by. But today reserves were running low, and so was my energy.

The radio buzzed to life.“A4”. My partner extended his arm for the fist sized mic. Several seconds passed. It was definately a rainy Sunday.

“A4, go ahead”, he answered. This was a typical robotic call and response inbetween ambulance-folk and their dispatch, rehearsed and performed dozens of times a day. Both of them sounded dull and uninterested.

The radio flickered again, “ Respond priority one to 135 Shirley Street on the 3rd floor for the stabbing. Fire is reporting a pedi involved- the police aren’t on scene yet, use caution. Ok, A4?”. The voice vanished as quick as it had appeared.

‘Priority one’ was the tag name for lights-and-sirens-get-there-as-quick-as-you-can, and ‘stabbing’ made both of us sit at attention. A 'pedi' call? Children? Sean cleared his throat with a hint of curiosity, and acknowledged the dispatcher. With a flick of the wrist he replaced the mic to its proper resting position, pulled on the headlights, and he adjusted his pant leg to again reside at their proper position. I snapped on my seat belt, and grabbed the map book wedged next to the seat. This city was confusing, and even old timers had trouble figuring out the roads.

“I think I know where it is…”, he said, trying to dismiss my efforts to find the location between sticky pages. He snapped on the strobes and lightbar, and wound the steering wheel into the road. I looked up at the rainy afternoon and wondered what was really coming my way.

Quickly, a reflection.

Smalltown EMS is a state of mind. It isnt a place. Nor is it a name. It's the combined story of the success, grit, tragedy and plight of the lives of the everyday heros in charge of emergency services so often heard about in urban legends.

This blog stems from 5 years of experiencing, living, and working in a private ambulance service in charge of the medical needs of 7 major cities north of Boston. Most characters involved are eager to charge head first into life and death situations, and ironically can fall on their face when faced with their own dilemmas. Their issues become the fabric of the workplace, and in the end becomes the inspiration of writing.

This site is aimed at trying to put a finger on the comedy and culture of pre-hospital emergency medicine. If not for its absurdity, dark humor and outright vulgarity, it is for its inherent addictiveness, clausterphobia, and toxicity that inspires. This compilation of stories and narrative will hopefully give the reader a sketch of the lifestyle of the EMT that I have learned to both love and hate in the same breath.

Over the next few weeks and months, this site will add numerous stories of my own experience. All names, and pertinent facts have been changed to protect those involved.

Thank you for viewing this site, and please come back soon.